Michaelis
by mr. eames
Summary: He's the type of person who craves company when he's alone, and searches desperately for solitude when he's with others–and that contradiction kills him sometimes. Liebgott, in seven kisses, some of them involving Web. Oneshot.


**Michaelis**

**A/N**: Inspired by a piece from the Death Note fandom, oddly enough, this is just something that wrote itself. Lieb is my favorite character in the series, as he feels the most real to me, so this story doubles as a sort of character study for him along as a romantic piece.  
Also, not very important to the story, but interesting (at least to me), the name of the fic comes from the Italian name for St. Michael. I'm not especially religious but I remember learning about St. Michael the Archangel and he's quite fascinating. Besides that, though, he's also considered the the patron saint of the Paratroopers/American Airborne so...the name just felt appropriate for that reason. And I went for the Italian version because naming it 'Michael' felt a bit bland.  
There's technically more het than slash here, but the slashy bits are definitely expanded upon more and hold more importance on the romantic side of things, while the het occurs more when he's younger and still growing up.  
**Warnings**: Nothing overly bad here besides a few swearwords.  
**Pairings**: Liebgott/Webster, main. Liebgott/OFC and Liebgott/OMC, also, but none of the OCs are important characters.  
**Summary**: He's the type of person who craves company when he's alone, and searches desperately for solitude when he's with others–and that contradiction kills him sometimes. Liebgott, in seven kisses, some of them involving Web. Oneshot.  
**Disclaimer**: Standard disclaimer goes here.

**hand-in-hand**

He's cold and he says so, because he's four, maybe five, and these are the sorts of things that are important to tell others, to _announce_, at this age. Tugging on his mother's sleeve and he says, "Ma_ma_, I'm cold," and puffs his cheeks out and brings his eyebrows together. His hair is all combed back, but some pieces are out of place, just from walking around. He never quite looks put together.

His mother is this petite woman, who can be brash at home and cheerful around family members, but who is quiet and meek when they come into town. He thinks she looks pretty in her best dress, though, even if it is thread-worn and bare.

She says, "Joseph, take my hand," in her accented English.

"Mama," he whines, "I'm cold all over, not just my hands."

"Joseph, please, take my hand, yes?" She holds it out to him and it's rough and calloused–and, oh, none of her girls were ever this way.

He sees the way she looks, tired and defeated, and opens his mouth, but he's too young to really know the words that he wants to say, so he does what she tells him to–takes her hand, feels the way that she holds his, tight and fiercely protective.

And he's still too young to be properly embarrassed when she leans down and kisses him on the top of his head.

**outside**

He gets to a point, though, where it is an embarrassment. All of it, his mother, his father, his sisters, his entire family and the way that they're _there_. He's nine and the greatest injustice he can imagine being placed upon a person is being related to these people.

He kicks things, and punches things, but he's never done either to people, because he's still scrawny and everyone laughs when he gets angry. No one pays him much attention. Except, well–there is this girl, who lives in his neighborhood.

See, there's this one afternoon in the sweltering summer of Detroit when he's playing outdoors, where she comes up to him in this frilly number, with ribbons in her long, blonde hair.

He's thinking, like, man, isn't she dying in this heat, but he says, "What d'you want?" and does his best to glare at her.

She giggles, says, "Are you Joseph?" and before he can even _answer_ she's leaning over and kissing him on the cheek and then he's left gaping at open air as she runs away, ribbons trailing in the wind behind her.

For hours, then days, and then weeks, he'll stand around outside his house, waiting for her to come around again. She does sometimes, usually with a group of girls, and he never really finds the courage to go up to her, and she pretends like she doesn't even see him.

It sort of breaks his heart for a while there, but a few months later she's nothing more than a memory that he only touches on when he sees girls in frilly dresses and ribbons, and that's not all that often.

**terror**

They move when he's a teenager and he hates it. Oh, sure, San Fran is nice enough to _look_ at, to _visit_, maybe, but to live in? To live in it's just weird. People in books live in cities like this, and he feels too boring and too ordinary to be a part of a place like this.

Part of him feels like it's all his fault, too. He's barely fourteen, barely a person, and all his most vivid memories involve concrete and conflict and blood, friends standing off to the side while he's urging someone else to hit him just once, and getting stitches and bags of ice to press to bruises.

His mother spends most of her time being invisible and staring out windows, a cigarette always present in her hand, and his father spends most of his time at work, and his time at home eating and drinking and not much else. His sisters are, by this point, old enough to be away from the house, with husbands or boyfriends or friends.

He has no friends. People around here think he talks weird and looks too rough around the edges, which he supposes he does to them. Everyone he sees here is soft and smiling and perfectly put together.

He spits on the ground and wears worn leather boots, because he figures he might as well play the part.

Still, after a while, there are people who gravitate towards him.

A few of the guys play baseball and he likes baseball, and no one has money to do anything else these days, so in the afternoons, once school is out, that's what they do. It stretches out into summer, and at that point there are these girls that come to watch them, and he gets to know one of them, gets to know her dark brown hair and her hazel eyes and her name, her name, her name–_Sophie._

And, Sophie, she's soft, but she's smart. She wears skirts, but she can explain the rules to the game better than he, himself, can. She talks with the other girls about things that boys cannot possibly see the value in, but when he's with her–well, she makes him feel something that he can't even name.

He's terrified, though. Petrified and intimidated. He doesn't show it when his friends elbow him and raise their eyebrows and ask how it went with her. Even when his answer is, always, always, that they just walked around and talked, even then it scares the ever-living out of him.

She's so much more real than any other girls have ever been to him.

It's late August and late in the evening when he finally pulls her to the side, walks with her towards the forested side of the park, and it's there that he kisses her.

He's just–fuck, he's so _scared_, and he feels so stupid and inept and, God, he's thinking, this has to be awful for her.

"Joseph," she says, kind of panting when they part for a moment (and so is he), "that was–_you're_–oh."

Alright, so, he's fourteen, which means, probably, it isn't anything close to love, but that doesn't mean that it can't _feel_ like it is at the time.

**christmas**

Nineteen and he's got this dingy, little, hole-in-the-wall apartment, along with an ego too big for all of San Fran.

It isn't so bad, really, until he realizes that he's spending Christmas alone. He has friends, but they're all with their families, and, yeah, he has his family, but they're scattered all over the place and, quite honestly, he isn't _that_ lonely.

He considers girls–who are nothing more than phone numbers, at this point–while smoking cigarettes and tipping back some cheap whiskey, but it quickly becomes obvious that no one's going to be free today and he doesn't really care to see any of them, as it is.

How it ends up is this cliché thing of him walking around and not knowing what to do with himself on Christmas Eve. Though, it _is_ California, so the whole overcast and snowy sort of atmosphere is lost.

What he finds is this girl who isn't really a girl. She might be sixteen or she might be twenty-two, but she's standing on the side of the road in this outfit and–oh, well, he knows what she's doing, and he doesn't really care. He lives in that sort of neighborhood, after all.

But, it's Christmas, the sentimental buried deep within him says–and, he would like to see her out of that dress, every other part of him decides.

He's never done this whole sort of thing before, but she agrees to go with him back to his apartment easily. He's not sure if it's because he's so young or because he looks so harmless, but she doesn't seem worried about what he could do to her.

The thing is, when they get back to his apartment he doesn't know _what_ to do with her. She perches on the end of his bed and looks around at the bare walls and the emptiness and then at him, because there's nothing else to look at–which makes him horribly uncomfortable.

Oh, yeah, he's had girls in the same position before. In fact, he's had no problem in getting them there the past couple years, because he can be pretty fucking charismatic when he wants something (when he's trying to convince him_self_ that he wants something), but this is different. Somehow. It just is, he thinks, as he notices that she might still be in high school, with her limp blonde hair and baby blues and that little, but not _too_ little, white dress.

She gets up, though, and he can tell she's done this before, but never with anyone she's cared about, because she's all mechanical, her hands on his shoulders and her lips touching his, and they're warm–they really are, but it still feels _wrong_.

He pushes her away and she snaps at him, "What's your problem, huh?"

"I just–can't," is all he's able to say.

He gives her money, while she mumbles about how he's cheap and probably queer, and he almost regrets it when she slams the door behind her. _Almost_, because he's the type of person who craves company when he's alone and searches desperately for solitude when he's with others–and that contridiction kills him sometimes.

The rest of the night is spent feeling miserable, but the next day is just an ordinary day, so it isn't so bad to be alone, he tells himself.

**growing up**

For about a year he spends all his time sweeping up hair and getting money handed to him and listening to conversations that take place amongst it all at the barber shop a block away from his apartment building.

It's around the time the Tigers win the World Series, when he's flaunting the win of his hometown team to a few of the men waiting, that the owner of the shop, this Italian man who barely speaks any English, offers to show him how to cut and shave hair, says it will make things go faster if there are two of them, says he doesn't have his own son to teach, and, on top of it all, says he'll double his salary.

He's like, "Yeah, alright," because how else can he respond to that?

Turns out, he's a natural. Or–well, as much of a natural as he can be at a learned tade, anyway.

Mostly it's just old men whose hair he cuts. They're content to talk about sports or the city–and, by this point, he loves living here, so he's alright with either topic, as well.

Sometimes, though, he'll have a guy his age or a little younger come in, and that's always awkward. Most of his friends can't be bothered with haircuts, they're all too busy with jobs or girls or what_ever_, and in the end they usually interrupt him at some point and go, "Lieb, man, if it isn't too much to ask do you think you could just, y'know, do a little trim?"

But the guys who come into the barber shop to get their hair cut, they're always these sort of professionals. Easy-going enough to come to a little place like this, but uptight enough to take the time to come at all. He feels a bit odd running his hands through their hair, even if it is strictly for the purpose of grabbing sections to trim, so he's always glad when one of them asks for something simple.

He spends a year like that, until–there's this guy.

This guy, he's maybe nineteen, maybe twenty, and he's got this suit on, right? He's got this suit on, and he's talking about how he's going in for this job interview and his Ma–he actually says that, "my Ma"–insisted he come in and get a cut so he'd look presentable.

And the Italian guy who owns the place is outside talking to people half the time, so it's like–they're completely alone in there and they've fallen into this silence that's only interrupted by the various little _snip_, _snip_, _snips_ of his shears and then he's going, "Alright, you're all–mphgh."

Which is the sort of sound you make when the guy who's hair you were just cutting leans up and kisses you.

He quits the next day and he's found a new apartment in a better area by the next week and he manages to get a new job driving a taxi cab by using some connections and–the whole time, he's just thinking, like, shit, why didn't he mind that as much as he should have?

**words**

When they say that the paratroopers–the guys who jump out of airplanes for some reason he can't quite understand at the time–make twice as much as the regular army, he thinks he might have found his calling.

Of course, a few months later, once he's had a taste of Sobel and the shit that they call food around here, he's thinking, you know, maybe he hasn't.

Still, he's okay with the running, even if it leaves his chest hurting at times, and he gets along well enough with the other guys, though he's older than most of them, so it's not all bad.

He's trying to write a letter home–_has_ been trying to for a while, honestly–the first time he really talks to Web.

See, David Webster, who's in Fox Company, he went to college, is the rumor that's going around. So he didn't volunteer for the money, he volunteered just to _be_ here. Which either makes him insane or a prick, or both. Everyone tends to avoid him, but he does it mostly because Web is–well, to describe David Webster would probably call for some sort of eloquence, which he doesn't have.

Point is, Web is good-looking, _innocent_ looking, and would probably trust anyone who so much as smiled at him.

But, the first time they talk, he's trying to write this letter and Web's got his little journal, and everyone else is inside taking a breather, but they're both outside, for some reason. Fate would probably be the right word–but it never seems like fate when it happens to you.

Web's all, "Writing home?" like it isn't obvious.

And he's all, "Yeah, can't think of what to write exactly, though," where he sits in the grass, long past caring about what will happen if his trousers are out of order or get grass stains on them.

"Write about," Web pauses, as if considering something, and then finishes with, "the sky."

He looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun, says, "The fuck does my family care about what the sky looks like in Georgia?" He scoffs and looks back down at his half-written letter that he'll probably never send. "Maybe that's exciting to people in Massachusetts, but–"

"New York," Web interjects, and he's smiling in this sort of apologetic way when he does so.

"'Scuse me?" He looks back up, eyebrow raised. People rarely interrupt him around here.

"My family is in New York City," Web states, "not Massachusetts. This sky doesn't look like this back there, so I just thought–I don't know." He shrugs, starts to walk away.

"Hey, no, get back here," he calls after the pretty boy, who looks back at him as if there's a chance that he's talking to someone else. "Yeah, sit down. I want to know what the fuck it's like in New York City. Go on, tell me."

So, Web does. He uses all these huge, awe-inspiring words and sometimes goes silent when he can't think of the ones that will accurately describe things, but, even then, he still manages to make it sound like some impossibly amazing place.

After a while Web asks where he's from and he ends up telling him the whole story–as in, well his parents are from Austria, and he grew up in Michigan but he calls San Fran home these days–and, probably, he doesn't explain it as well as Web did New York, but he thinks he does it justice all the same.

They both have their own things to head to at some point, but Web promises they'll talk again, sometime, and it actually sounds like he's telling the truth.

It's weird, because he likes Web, knows himself well enough to realize that, but at the same time he doesn't tell anyone else in Easy about the whole thing. Not even when some of the guys are talking about the college boy, not even when they're like, "Hey, Lieb, what do you think about some guy like that being in the Airborne?"

He's just like, "As long as he can shoot a gun and throw a grenade without blowing himself up, I don't really care."

But, alright, that's sort of a lie–or, at least, every time he sees Web he manages to let him know that, just because he went to some school–("It's called _Harvard_, Lieb," Web will say, as if it pains him to hear it referred to in such an offhand manner)–it doesn't mean he's better than him, or any of them, for that matter.

Usually Web just nods, but there's this one time, perilously close to when they're going to be leaving for England, where he says, "I've never thought that–that I was better than you. I wouldn't even know where to begin thinking something like that."

The words are too sincere, really, too heartfelt. Web says everything like it's prose in a book, and it's almost annoying, save for the fact that it's not, because it's Web and Web is–_is _Web, which hardly makes any sense, but–

he kisses Web behind the barracks and thinks that, if he actually had anyone worth writing home to, this would be something worth writing home _about_, if he could even find the words to describe the way that Web and him sort of fall into each other and just _fit_, not like it's meant to be, but at least like they've both found something that works

–he thinks he might love Web for it, anyway.

**daybreak**

He has two stories when it comes to the war. There's everything that matters, and there's everything that only matters to him (and maybe to one other person). And he knows, yeah, he knows, that the first part of that is important to everyone. Normandy, Brécourt, Carentan, Eindhoven, and on, and on, and on–but everyone knows that story.

There are parts that are important to him that no one else knows about, and so he has two stories. There's everything that he tells people, and there's everything that he keeps to himself (and maybe shares with one other person).

The second story, it's nothing special, it just goes like, Web transfers into Easy Company, Web gets shot, Web is gone and he's alone and the cold seeps so far into him that he can even feel it now–and Web is back, but there's tension between them and maybe it's stupid of him, but he can't help but be angry, for a while, and then he's not, and then it's him and Web again, and then they're arguing over whether or not it's okay to kill some German soldier and then, and then, and _then_–

And then the war is over and mostly he breathes a huge sigh of relief, just like everyone else, but he also looks at Web and thinks, well, shit.

Because Web talks about New York and he talks about Frisco and those, he realizes (_really_ realizes) for the first time, are on opposite sides of the country.

He mentions this to Web a few days before they leave Austria and all he gets is a very David Webster reaction, which is to say Web says something that might be profound, but which could be in Japanese for all it makes sense, and turns to look off at the sunrise that they can see through the window from where he's standing in his room.

He's like, "Christ, Web, this isn't a movie, talk like a normal person," as he sits in one of the chairs, glancing up at the other man every so often, without really meaning to.

"I do talk like a normal person," Web says, exasperated, but, still, he adds, "I just–I think that if we're meant to meet up again, we will."

"Right, yeah," he tries to be blasé, brush it off, act as if he's the type of person to believe in that bullshit, when _really_ he's the type of person who runs at destiny, rather than waiting for it to show up.

"Oh, come on," Web's got this smile on his face, and it's sort of infectious, especially when he continues with, "I've always wanted to go to California, anyway."

"And now you have a fuckin' incentive, don't you?" he asks, and the answer is this horribly–_wonderfully_–slow kiss, that's probably everything Web's ever imagined and then some, considering how he leans over him and is in control for once–even if it does taste like cigarette smoke.

Yeah, when they're arriving home and all the other men find nurses and pretty, delicate girls who are waiting to welcome them back–he and Web will have this moment to look back on, and the promise that it implies to look forward to.

And, Joseph Liebgott, he doesn't mind that one bit.

**A/N**: You know, I didn't actually intend to write this so that Lieb's name wasn't mentioned in the prose the up until the very end, but it ended up like that. This is the first BoB fic that I'm actually putting up anywhere, so if you took the time to read it I'd really appreciate some feedback! :3  
Thanks for reading~  
**Extra (aka me rambling, feel free to ignore this)**: Okay, so a few things that I just wanted to point out, and which can be ignored unless you care to read them. I know this fic takes a lot of liberties with Lieb's life and his family, most of which probably aren't true. But I know a creepy amount about the real Liebgott, so the basic factual stuff is accurate. His family is from Austria, not Germany, and he was born in Michigan and lived near Detroit while he was growing up and moved to Frisco later. Though, I'm not sure, when, exactly, they moved there, so it might have been earlier or later.  
For a fic about growing up I know this one is suspiciously absent of any type of religion. The thing is, Liebgott wasn't actually Jewish. The miniseries implies heavily that he is, but he was actually raised to be a Roman Catholic. Many of his fellow paratroopers assumed he was Jewish, including Webster, and he let them think that he was. So I kind of felt torn about including anything of that nature, especially considering that he isn't ever shown to be especially religious.  
And, yes, Web was in Fox Company for a while, up until he transferred to Easy after the Battle of Normandy. I only point that out because I wasn't aware of that until I read more about him! Perhaps that's actually mentioned in the miniseries, I tend to miss little facts like that when I'm not looking for them, but as far as I remember he just kind of showed up one day and knew about Dear John letters and was suddenly an important character, haha.


End file.
